The Legend (13 page)

Ivy listened to his faintly
bitter statement. "How did you come to live with Lord Brian?"

Ali's reclined against the arm of
the chair. "My father met Lord Brian while he was studying in the lands of
the east. He and my mother accompanied Baron Rothwell back to England as sort
of a mutual exchange of culture; my father, too, is a brilliant scholar and was
eager to learn of the white man's world. It held such fascination for him that
he never left."

Ivy listened to his voice, rich
and warm, as his gentle manner eased her. Far calmer than she had been when he
had first carted her into the room, she was better able to deal with him on a
rational level. In fact, the rational tone of their conversation was quickly
turning pleasant.

       Ali watched her pretty
features, reading the emotions as they rippled across her brow. He prayed
fervently that she was considering his words, coming to realize that he was
exactly as he described himself; a man with dark skin, born and raised in the
same country that had also bred her.

 She kept staring at his hair.
Noting her fascination, he gently reached out and took her hand. Ivy stiffened
and attempted to dislodge her fingers, but his grasp tightened.

"I shall not harm you,
demoiselle, I promise," his voice was soft. Grinning into her astonished
face, he brought her rigid palm to bear on his scalp.

Ivy's eyes widened as he
vigorously brushed her hand over his coarse hair. Ali laughed softly, a deep
throaty laugh that sent chills racing down her spine. After a moment, he
released her hand and was amazed when she continued to finger his hair. Ivy was
content to experience the black hair tickle her palm until she abruptly
realized that he was no longer controlling her actions; she was. Sharply, she
retracted her hand and lowered her gaze, praying desperately that he did not
notice her flushed cheeks.

Ali not only noticed, he was
enchanted. "Why do you look away from me? You are most beautiful when your
cheeks are kissed red."

Ivy lowered her head even
further, an unconscious hand flying to her cheek. "I.... is there anything
else you wished to speak with me about or is our conversation concluded?"

His smile faded, although it
remained warm. "If you wish, it is concluded. I have said what I intended
to say."

Sheepishly, she slanted him a
gaze, her hand still to her blazing cheek. Over the past several minutes, she
had come to realize that Ali the Soldier was not the well-trained dog she had
accused him of being, nor a barbarian, nor any of the other slanderous insults
she had flung at him. On the contrary; he was well-spoken, polite and gentle.
Everything a chivalrous knight should be.

Although she was still wary of
his presence, her understanding of his odd appearance was beginning to grow and
she was suddenly remorseful for being so cruel. He did not deserve the jeers
she had been so liberal in dispensing.

But it was difficult to admit her
fault and she swallowed hard before she was able to bring the words to her
lips. Apologizing had never come easy for her.

"I am sorry I called you a
black barbarian," she said quietly. "You had succeeded in piquing my
anger, and I say a great many things when I am angry."

       His smile abruptly
subsided and she could read the shock in his eyes. Puzzled with his reaction,
her eyebrows drew together. "Why do you look like that?” she demanded. “I
just told you that I am sorry for insulting you."

He swallowed, a most amazed
expression igniting a fire in his onyx eyes. After a moment, he simply shook
his head. "I have simply never known a woman to apologize for insulting
me," his voice was strangely tight.

Ivy's demeanor began to return as
Ali's seemed to slip. She cocked a blond eyebrow. "Do you go around
provoking insults from other women, as well? I see that I am not an isolated
case. What did you do to warrant such an attack? Abduct them as you abducted
me? Or, mayhap, tie them to a tree and use them for sword practice?"

His gaze was steady, but his eyes
had lost none of their magical spark. "Their insults were not borne from
provocation. They were delivered from ignorance."

Ivy's expression evened, the seed
of humor so recently sewn cooling into a new depth of realization. She could
read pain in his eyes that nearly made her cringe. Black or not, he was a man
with emotions and feelings, of pain and longing, and her clouded perception of
the dark warrior began to lift just the slightest. He was not a beast. He was a
man.

She shifted her bottom in the
carved oak bench; suddenly, they were seated thigh-to-thigh, arm-to-arm. Her
gaze grew steady, curious even, and he met her inquisitive stare as impassively
as he could. Inside, however, he was quivering like a young knave; the quaking
anticipation of the next step in their conversation. Was she attempting to
throw him off his guard in preparation for damning him, like all the rest?

But her reply dashed his
anxieties. "My insults were borne from ignorance, too,” she said quietly.
“The next insult I slap you with will be the result of pure irritation and
nothing more."

He simply could not believe what
he was hearing. He did not care if she insulted him a thousand times a day, so
long as the taunts weren't rooted in disgust for his color. But as much as he
wanted to have faith in her declaration, it came difficultly. There had been
too much hatred and stupidity that he had been forced to assume to easily
believe that she could disregard his difference with so little struggle. Even
with all of the harsh words and physical tussling, compared to the majority of
women he had encountered, he considered Ivy's resistance minor. He wanted to
believe her, but only time would tell.

He smiled weakly. "Then I
shall endeavor not to irritate you."

The conversation was concluded.

***

Meanwhile, Peyton's tour of St.
Cloven had not been an extensive one. She stuck to the main points of interest,
the great hall, the small solar, and the kitchens. Alec paused in the kitchens
to speak with the cook and inspect the entire stock, much to his future wife's
annoyance.

He criticized the method in which
the grains were stored and vowed to make immediate improvements. The salted
meats were stored adequately, but he did not feel that the buttery was cool
enough for the dairy products and promised he would seek advice for its
betterment. Peyton chewed her lip irritably as Alec and the cook reviewed
kitchen procedures.

After a lengthy discussion with
the wrinkled woman who had cooked for two generations of de Fluornoy's, Peyton
took Alec to the second floor where he proceeded to inspect each room
carefully, making note of the furnishings and state of repair. He was pleased
to discover that the interior was well kept and clean; with two young women
living alone, he wasn't sure what he would find.

But his fears had been for
naught, as he was rapidly discovering. As they moved down the corridor, all of
the doors were open for Alec's scrutiny save one. Peyton led him past the
closed cedar panel en route to the master chamber, but he stopped curiously and
put his hand on the latch.

"What is this room?"

Peyton gazed at the closed door
as if she were considering that very question. "A chamber like all the
others. The master chamber is this way."

He did not reply, nor did he
follow her. Instead, he opened the chamber door and stepped through the
archway.

Color greeted him. Rainbows of
vibrant hues were all over the room. Several easels were placed in various
spots, vellum nailed to frames hung upon them. Pictures of brilliance and
talent kissed the parchment; flowers, birds, landscape scenes. Other pieces of
vellum were strewn across the room in various stages of completion. Paints,
neatly grouped, graced a large cherrywood table as well as several brushes of
different shapes and sizes.

The entire room cried of spirit,
of life, of happiness. As if a whole magical world had opened up before him,
Alec was enchanted.

He peered curiously at the
painting closest to him, a scene depicting wildflowers. Illustrated from watercolor
on parchment, they were realistic and he shook his head in wonder.

"These are
magnificent," he exclaimed softly. "Who painted these?"

Peyton stood at the door, her
gaze combing the room. "I did."

His eyes snapped to her.
"You? Peyton, they're remarkable. I have never seen such talent."

She shrugged, not answering. This
room reminded her too much of James; her painting and her ale had been the only
diversions to keep her going after his death. The room brought solace, but it
brought memories as well. This was her private haven and she was unhappy with
Alec's invasion.

But he was oblivious to her
discomfort. He moved from easel to easel, inspecting each painting thoroughly.
Peyton folded her arms protectively across her chest as he scrutinized her most
personal works, feeling open and vulnerable. He paused by a group of paintings
near the window and crouched down, observing them closely.

"When did you paint
these?" he asked.

She glanced over at him, noticing
the cluster of paintings he was regarding. A chill of sorrow ran through her.
"Last year."

He examined the vellum panels
portraying dark scenes; a knight entirely in black standing on what looked to
be a background of blood. The depths and shading that composed the figure of
the knight were extraordinary and it appeared that at any moment he would
stroll from the confines of the parchment. But for all the realism, Alec saw a
good deal of hopelessness to the paintings. He remembered her mentioning that
she had been betrothed once before and he suspected these paintings had
something to do with her grief. As his eyes trailed up to a painting on the
window sill, a splash of bright color caught his eye.

A joust pole stood in the corner,
broken in half. Its twelve foot length was bent, twisted and dirty. The faded
yellow and white colors were still bright, still proud, and he felt a strange
tug at his heart as he beheld the bent pole. It reminded him of the days when
he was unbeatable on the tournament field, the days when he and Peter would
fight side by side, encouraging and assisting one another. Between the dark
pictures and the broken pole, his mood rapidly dampened.

On the floor next to the pole was
a scabbard. It was plain but well-kept, not nearly as ornate as some of the
scabbards he has seen.  It looked lonely and stark with the broken pole and
Alec found himself rising to his feet, pacing toward the forlorn tokens.

"Who did these belong
to?" he asked softly.

Peyton stared at the two items,
her face pale and drawn. "They belonged to James, my betrothed."

Alec continued to look at the
reminders, feeling her grief as it mingled with grief of his own. He couldn't
help himself from asking. "How did he die?"

Peyton closed her eyes and turned
away. "He was speared last year at a tournament in Norwich."

"And you were there?"

"Aye."

Her voice was barely audible. She
had tried so desperately to forget that terrible day, but his questions brought
the memories back like a stab to her heart. The words came spilling out before
she could stop them.

"It was the first tournament
I had ever attended,” she went on, softly. “James had been competing for years
and had amassed an excellent reputation and a good deal of wealth. He promised
me it would be his last competition before we were married and my father
allowed me to attend. It was exciting until the very last, when he was gored by
a spear-tipped joust pole. I am told that spear-tipped poles had not been used
since the days of the Lion Heart, but the knight that competed against James
had broken his crows-foot pole earlier in the day and was forced to use his
spare. He did not mean to do it; it was an accident." She drifted over to
a bright painting of roses and touched it absently, tears spilling onto her
cheeks. "I held him while he died. The pole you see leaning against the
wall was the pole he was using that day. It broke when he fell."   

Alec stared at the mementos a
moment longer and turned away. Hearing her story and seeing the bleak reminders
brought back his own pain of losing a brother and he refused to be swept up by
the black grief. The coldness of self-preservation consumed him, turning his
demeanor to ice.

"The paintings are
beautiful," he muttered. "Show me the master chamber now."

He quit the room hastily, nearly
bumping Peyton in his urgency. Immediately, she sensed his change in mood and
it did nothing to ease her anguish. Wiping her tears away with a shaking hand,
her sorrow became something deeper, darker, and far more disruptive. It was an
emotion she was coming to readily associate with Alec.

Obviously, her future husband was
insensitive and uncaring and she felt the powerful return of her
self-protection. Embarrassment filled her. What had she expected from him as
she spilled her innermost feelings? Compassion, sympathy at the very least? 
Mayhap an apology for her sorrows? Instead, he had brushed past her without a
word, and she was deeply hurt.